


beggars and choosers

by darlingargents



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Deepthroating, Dubcon - victim goes along with attempted noncon because they think they deserve it, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23291173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/pseuds/darlingargents
Summary: The thing is — there’s no one like Richie in Derry. Except, he’s pretty sure, for Patrick Hockstetter.
Relationships: Patrick Hockstetter/Richie Tozier
Comments: 19
Kudos: 103
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	beggars and choosers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerdayghost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerdayghost/gifts).



> Minor warning for mentions of homophobic slurs and misogynistic language/taunting.

The thing about being a queer kid in a town this size is that there’s no one else like you.

Richie has always known that he’s fucked up, that there’s something wrong with him. Normal kids don’t look at their friends and imagine them naked, or fantasize about being kissed by someone who looks much more like Richard Gere than Madonna. He’s always known he’s alone, and that any other gay people that might exist are somewhere else, like New York or San Francisco, and probably all dying, going by what his dad says about _those damn queers_ when he’s watching the news.

The thing is — there’s no one like him in Derry. Except, he’s pretty sure, for Patrick Hockstetter.

Patrick has always been weird. He hung out with Henry Bowers and his friends, sometimes, but he was different — there was always something off about him, something a little creepier. Sure, Bowers turned out to be a murderer, but Richie’s always felt like Patrick is something worse, somehow.

Worse, and like him.

All of those thoughts — all of the knowledge and the worry and the fear of dying — coalesce in Richie’s head as he stands outside Patrick’s house. He’s been before, at some point; he can’t remember when, but he can remember the floral wallpaper and the ribbon in his Mrs. Hockstetter’s hair when she served them cookies, the urn on the mantel with the name AVERY engraved on the front. He hadn’t gone upstairs to Patrick’s room. He wonders what it’s like.

It doesn’t matter. He’s here for a reason. A very awful reason, but a reason.

Richie steels his nerves, pretends his hands aren’t shaking, and knocks on the front door.

It’s maybe thirty seconds before Patrick answers, thirty seconds in which Richie wonders how badly he’ll be beaten if he just runs right now. And then Patrick opens the door and all of Richie’s thoughts of running vanish completely. It only takes one look into Patrick’s eyes to know that running would never have been an option. Even if Patrick didn’t catch him — and Patrick is bigger, stronger, more powerful in every way, so there’s no chance he would’ve gotten away — he never would’ve made it a day.

“Hi,” Richie says, and is astonished by how steady his voice is. “You said you wanted to see me?”

That’s not quite true. It was quite a lot of unspoken words, and implications, and Patrick’s hand somewhere that no one else’s hand has ever been, and a whispered time and place.

Point is, Richie’s here now.

Patrick eyes him for a moment, like he’s sizing him up, and then nods to himself. “Yeah, come in. Parents are working, don’t worry about them.”

“Uh, okay.” Richie steps inside and kicks off his shoes as Patrick reaches around him to close the door. The closeness only serves to accentuate how much bigger he is. Richie tries not to think about it.

“Follow me,” Patrick says, and Richie follows him through the living room and towards the stairs. He notices the AVERY urn again, and as they get to the bottom of the stairs, he asks about it.

Patrick glances at the urn, and laughs. It’s so unexpected that Richie stops for a moment, wondering if Patrick misheard him.

“Avery,” he says, “was my brother.” And he doesn’t say another word about it. Richie feels a flicker of unease as he follows Patrick up the narrow, creaking stairs up to a small landing. There’s a door covered in novelty KEEP OUT signs, similar to Richie’s room, but something about this one unnerves him in a way he didn’t expect. Patrick opens the door, and gestures for Richie to go in first.

It is, at first glance, a perfectly normal bedroom. Unmade bed, a few comic books mixed in with the textbooks on the desk, posters all over the walls. It _is_ normal, and yet Richie can’t stop the now-overwhelming feeling of dread. He needs to get out.

He can’t.

Patrick closes the door behind him. The quiet click of the door closing sends Richie’s mind into overdrive. He shoves his hands into his front pockets, his finger poking at the hole in the bottom of the left pocket, and tries not to hyperventilate.

It’s fine. It’s going to be fine.

“So,” Patrick says, and Richie wonders, for a split second, if Patrick is feeling like he is — nervous, worried about making the first move. “You’re going to blow me.”

Or not.

“You’re a romantic,” Richie says, and the joke falls flat. Patrick just looks at him. “Um. Can I—”

“Trashmouth, you really need to learn when to stop talking,” Patrick says, and Richie’s stomach goes cold. The look in Patrick’s eyes scares him on a level he can’t articulate.

Patrick undoes his belt, and the metallic sound of the buckle shakes something loose in Richie’s head. He realizes that, whether he likes it or not, this is happening. Patrick doesn’t care in the slightest if Richie is happy about it. The best thing he can do is make it easier for himself and go along with it.

Patrick leans against the door, his pants around his ankles, and Richie goes over to him and kneels down on the carpeted floor. Patrick’s dick is half-hard, and Richie can see the shape of it through his underwear. It’s half terrifying and half the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life. He’s already hard, almost painfully so, inside his jeans.

Hands trembling, he reaches up for the band of Patrick’s underwear, and pulls it down. His dick is longer than Richie’s, a little thicker, curved and red, the tip leaking fluid.

Half of Richie wants to run away screaming, is terrified that by putting his mouth on this — by giving in — that he’s signing his death warrant. The other half has never wanted anything so much, so painfully, in his entire life.

He opens his mouth and wraps it around the head of Patrick’s dick. Above him, Patrick sighs contentedly, but when he looks up, Patrick is still looking down at him, eyes focused, that creepy grin on his face.

Richie closes his eyes and starts to suck.

It almost feels too easy. He uses one hand to jerk off the part of Patrick’s dick that doesn’t fit into his mouth — most of it, really — and moves his head up and down, like he’s seen the girls do in those videos, getting into a rhythm. From Patrick’s faint groans and the hand buried in his hair, guiding him ever so slightly, he’s doing okay.

It feels almost easy, and it’s turning him on more than he’s ever been turned on in his life. His hips are jerking forward just a bit with every movement of his head, trying to get the slightest friction on his dick. He reaches down with his free hand to rub himself through his jeans, but Patrick kicks his hand out of the way before he can touch himself.

“Not until I say you can,” he says, and Richie feels a thrill, somewhere below his stomach, at the breathiness in his voice.

He keeps going, bobbing his head and sucking and moving his hand in rhythm, and then Patrick’s other hand goes to his head. He pauses, and Patrick says, “Take your hand away and open wide.”

Richie wants to ask. He doesn’t. He moves his hand, and Patrick guides his head to take in his dick. Further, and further, until Richie thinks he’s going to throw up, until he can’t breathe.

The head of Patrick’s dick hits the back of Richie’s throat, and he makes an involuntary noise, half gag and half gurgle. Patrick laughs, and hair rises on the back of Richie’s neck at the sound.

Gripping Richie’s head tighter, Patrick starts to fuck his throat.

There’s no other word for it. He shoves his dick as far back as it can go, until it hurts, until Richie’s sure he’s going to throw up, over and over, like Richie’s just a toy for him to use. The thought causes tears to spring to Richie’s closed eyes, and he screws them shut, willing the tears not to fall. He’s not going to cry. He’s not going to be weak, not here.

It hurts, and he feels disgusting, violated, like Trashmouth — and Richie is still more turned on than he’s ever been before. There’s something wrong with him, he thinks, something damaged, that he would enjoy something like this.

He enjoys it. He _deserves_ it.

After an infinity, Patrick stops thrusting, Richie’s head so far forward that his nose is brushing Patrick’s stomach, and his dick twitches in his mouth, once, twice, and spills down his throat. He pulls out and Richie coughs, trying to swallow it down instead of spraying it everywhere. He wonders, briefly, what Patrick would do if Richie snorted come out of his nose, and represses a laugh so that it doesn’t actually happen.

Patrick is looking at him coldly, pulling up his pants and doing them up, and says, “Lie on the bed.”

Richie’s not going to stop listening to him now, so he does what Patrick says. Patrick comes up beside him, and for a moment Richie is terrified that this is it, Patrick got what he wanted and now he’s going to kill Richie and that’s what he gets for being a goddamn—

Patrick undoes Richie’s jeans and carelessly shoves a hand inside his underwear, wrapping loosely around his still-hard dick. He starts to jerk him off, quick and dry, and it still feels good enough that Richie groans and arches into Patrick’s hand.

“You liked that, huh, Trashmouth?” Patrick says, and Richie whimpers in the back of his throat. He doesn’t want to, didn’t mean to, but Patrick laughs softly at the sound anyway. “Yeah. You liked sucking my cock like a little bitch. And now you’re fucking my hand like a little slut—”

Richie jerks against his hand and comes, harder than he ever has before, in his pants.

Patrick withdraws his hand and wipes it casually on the bed, still watching Richie with those creepy, cold eyes. There’s something almost lizardlike about him, Richie notices; something that doesn’t feel quite human.

“I’m sure you remember the way out,” Patrick says, and sits down on the bed, grabbing a comic book off the nightstand. Richie stands, legs still wobbly, and does up his pants. He doesn’t look back as he leaves the room.

When he’s finally on the street, he turns back to look at the house. He can’t see Patrick in the window, but he’s almost sure that Patrick is there, watching. He knows he’ll be back soon enough.

He knows this is just the beginning.

Richie begins the long walk home, the shame settling in with every step.


End file.
